The Catoptric Chest
by GoAhead-Shoot
Summary: In which Cato is moved to District 12 to volunteer as a tribute. This story explores Cato and Katniss' relationship as they go through the Hunger Games together as representatives of the same district. With the constant clashing and sparking of their intense personalities, will Cato and Katniss survive the arena, and can their eventual friendship become something more?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello Readers! This is my first Hunger Games Fanfiction, and I'm very excited to write out this story and hear your comments and ideas as it progresses. Just to tell you from the beginning, this story is a Cato/ Katniss ship; I'll include Gale and Peeta, but neither of them is going to end out with Katniss or play a major role. I actually really liked Cato in the books, and behind every antagonist is a great backstory, which I'm hoping to develop as I continue writing. Ideally, I can make Cato and Katniss' strong personalities collide in ways that remain true to the Hunger Games as their relationship advances. Eventually this story could be pretty long: I'm aiming for at least 100,000 words for the finished product, but, as a sophomore in high school, I may not have the time to do this. That being said, I would also like to say that my updates are going to be highly irregular. Additionally, I try my best with grammar, but if you catch any mistakes, please feel free to correct me through a review or PM. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!**

**Note: The Hunger Games, its characters, and its plot belong to Suzanne Collins. **

The distant whistle of the train sweeps through District 12, as the narrow, dirty streets flood with people. Children run out, eager to accompany their parents in picking up supplies. The chatter and gossip is loud enough to echo through the mountains. I lay alone on the frosty grass, which crunches satisfyingly under my weight, and stare down into the valley, home to my town and the centre of my small world. The overgrown vegetation tickles my chin as I roll over onto my back and stare up at the clouds, blocking out the noise, until all I can hear is the beating of my heart and the indistinct crackling of a nearby stream. Unused to the serenity, I exhale, my breath crystallising in the frigid air. This is peace. Remembering to check that my bag of game is still safely tethered to the high branches of an old oak tree, I drift off into a light slumber, dreaming of high places and the soft melodies that my father was so prone to humming.

OoOoOoO

"Catnip," a harsh voice whispers in my ear. Gale's warm breath billows around my neck.

"Mmmhhh," I respond sleepily, still somewhat immersed in my dreams. Gale gives me a firm nudge. I groan again. "I'm up," I mumble grudgingly.

"Good, you are too cold," Gale nags. "You'll catch your death." I roll my eyes at his exaggeration.

"I like the cold," I defend.

"That's what you say now, but when you get hypothermia…"

"Shut up," I riposte jokingly as Gale offers me help up. Refusing his proffered hand, I cut down the bag of squirrels and rabbits from the tree. Gale and I trek down the mountain and over the fence in companionable silence. When we reach the Hob, he stops. The look in his smoky grey eyes warns me about his intentions.

"Before you lecture me, Gale, I'm taking the tesserae. Prim and my mother need it, and there is no way I can hunt enough for us to survive on."

"Katniss, don't. It's not worth the risk. Prim and your mother won't be thanking you for it if you get reaped next month," he insists.

"I could tell you the same," I retort. Gale begins to say something else, but thankfully realises it's a hopeless argument. Huffing, I turn into the Hob. After making my general rounds around the booths, visiting Greasy Sae to buy soup, I'm about to return home. However, something in an abandoned corner catches my eye.

It lies forgotten; nobody in the bustle and chaos would pass it a second glance, much less stray from the trampled path on the dirt floor for a closer look at the dark, knotted wood, unpolished but still ornate in its engravings. This artefact surely belongs in the Capitol; it appears far too valuable to be placed among the riff-raff of District 12. Maybe that's why it seems so foreboding. Or maybe it's because there could be anything concealed inside the small chest. Intrigued, I gravitate towards it, tracing my finger through the layer of dust coating the surface. The tarnished silver hinge lifts to reveal the interior chamber. Inside, I'm surprised to see olive skin, tangled brown hair, so dark it's almost black, and cold, grey eyes. For an instant, I don't recognise my own reflection in the mirrors that line the box. Over and over again, my likeness flashes, in some of the panels distorted, while, in others, enlarged. It's a catoptric chest.

I feel inexplicably drawn to it. Circling in place, I search for a vendor. No one is even close, much less watching over this peculiar box. I should just leave, take the food I got back home and eat a quiet dinner with Prim and my mother. Yet, for whatever selfish, ridiculous reason, I want this chest. Still seeing no other people lingering around, I experimentally lift it up, surprised at the weight. This is not piecemeal compressed wood like most furniture is made of in District 12. This is clearly imported from District 7; probably made of solid cherry or rosewood.

It's not because of the craftsmanship or the materials of which it's made that I clasp the chest under my arm and hurriedly walk out with it. Somehow, it has an innate pull. Regretting my submission to temptation as I practically run out of the Hob, I have to remind myself of the fact that I'm stealing from a black market, and of the layer or dust found on the chest, indicating that there was no owner to begin with. I doubt this chest will be missed.

When I get home, I place the box under my bed, forgotten for the moment. I set the table for my family, and wait until Mother and Prim return for dinner.

OoOoOoO

The next day, rumours begin to spread through District 12 about a guest who came in on the train yesterday. I pay them little mind until an announcement is made around midday: there is a town meeting later this evening. From here, speculations fly, ranging from theories that the guest is President Snow himself to ideas that it's Effie Trinket, and the Reaping has come early. After school and a rushed hunting trip with Gale, I return home to get dressed into something a little more formal. Although no dress code was specified, the term "distinguished guest" was enough to make me cautious. After helping Prim into a skirt and blouse, we make our way over to the square, which is already packed with people. We wait nearly an hour until the lights on the platform flicker on, revealing Mayor Undersee, several dozen Peacekeepers, and a large, blonde boy.

Slightly confused as to why he would be, presumably, the guest of honour, I flip through a mental list of victors. He looks the type. However, despite my best efforts, I have no clue as to his identity. Clearing his throat and piping up in his mousy voice, Mayor Undersee begins the announcement.

"Hello, District 12. Thank you for joining me in gathering here today to welcome our most esteemed guest: Mr Cato Atrius." Based on the scattered applause, it seems I am not alone in my confusion. Obviously embarrassed and slightly disheartened at the lack of enthusiasm, Mayor Undersee continues to explain.

"For those of you who are unaware of the circumstances of his arrival, know that young Mr Atrius was brought here from District 2 as part of a business agreement. We provided District 2 with a large shipment of coal to be used for new military technologies, while District 2 agreed to send in return a prepared, strong tribute to volunteer in the stead of one of our own. Cato will accept District 12 citizenship, and volunteer in the Reaping next month." This statement, in stark contrast to the one before, garners a boisterous round of applause from all of District 12. My face slips into a rare smile at the implications. Although Cato will not replace the female tribute, leaving Prim and myself still in the raffle, this means that Gale and his brothers are safe.

Curious, I gaze upon the career tribute, gauging his reaction. His strong jaw remains set, and the grimace he wears seems to be a permanent aspect of his countenance. He clasps his muscled arms closely across his chest, protectively, as to shield himself from an unexpected threat. His posture is rigid, ready to spring at the slightest provocation. Either Cato has extreme stage fright, is massively distrustful of our district, or was trained to act this way. Although the former possibility seems unlikely, I would speculate his obvious tension is a result of the latter two factors. I shiver at the thought of the training that would force someone to be this vigilant. Games or not, that's no way to live. Not that I'm one to talk.

"For the duration of his stay, District 12 will be providing for Mr Atrius as he continues his training before the Games. Are there any volunteers to host our guest?" I quickly pull down Prim's hand, as she tentatively raises it in the air, ever the benefactress. I have enough trouble feeding our family as it is, I don't need anyone else to support. Instead, Mayor Undersee selects the baker's family.

"Very good, Mr Mellark. Your generosity is appreciated. Thank you for your attendance, District 12. Have a lovely evening," he smiles, dismissing us. The Peacekeepers, followed by Mayor Undersee and the boy, file stiffly off the platform and into the Justice Hall. Onstage, the lights flicker off and a shadow runs back to disassemble the microphone. As the crowd begins to dissipate, I clasp Prim's delicate hand, and begin to slowly wind through the throng, leading her back home.

Before we're out of the square, I feel someone's glare at my back. Quivering slightly for a reason I can't understand, I turn on my heel. Quickly deducting that there's no one immediately behind me, I gaze up at the Justice Hall. Empty, ice blue eyes meet my own. It's the District 2 boy. Something within his intensely severe expression resonates within me. A fellow burdened soul. With a slight smirk, Cato turns away, his figure retreating from the window. Shaking my head, I sink back into self-awareness, suddenly conscious of the fact that I'm practically glued to the spot. Prim stares at me curiously, tugging on my hand and prompting me to walk with her back home.

OoOoOoO

I wake before the sun rises and sneak out of the tiny room that Prim and I share, pressing a light kiss to her forehead and throwing my father's old leather jacket over my shoulder. Hesitating in the kitchen, I opt against taking the last of the apples that Prim picked and brought home yesterday. Prim and my mother have to eat first. Nevertheless, I am dispirited at the prospect of hunting on an empty stomach. Hopefully I'll catch enough today so that I can have lunch. Shrugging on the thick jacket, I step out into the bitterly cold morning air. Gusts of biting wind bluster around me. My hair is caught within the whirlwind, thrashing wildly around my face like a dozen whips. Tightly clamping my jaw to force my teeth from chattering, I brake into a steady jog in an attempt to warm up. Once I reach the edge of the Seam, out of the view of prying eyes, sheer muscle memory guides me to the familiar gaping hole in the dilapidated barbed wire fence surrounding District 12. Confident in my isolation, I begin to climb through the hole, taking care not to touch any of the wire in case the electricity is on. Suddenly, I feel a slight pressure on the small of my back. A rush of dread fills me as I freeze, heart pounding furiously in my chest. _Please don't be a Peacekeeper; please don't be a Peacekeeper. _Selling them what I hunt is one thing, but if they catch me sneaking out of the District, I'm flaunting my disobedience in their faces. _Anyone but a Peacekeeper. _

Cautiously, my head slowly swivels to face the source of the threat. Before I actually get a good view of the person, his low, gravelly voice stops me.

"Stay where you are, 12," he commands. I don't recognise the accent, there's something deep and distinctly masculine, yet flowing in his enunciation. No one from District 12 speaks like that, not even the most affluent. If the inflection wasn't enough to suggest that he isn't from here, he actually called me 12. I wonder if that's how he denominates our entire district or if it's just me. Gradually, an idea begins to form in my head of my detainer's identity. The career boy: Cato Atrius. I've never heard him talk, but the voice and condescension fit my impression of him. My predictions are confirmed when he roughly grabs my shoulder, his grip still powerfully harsh through the thick material of my father's leather jacket, and spins me around to face him.

I couldn't see it last night, but his eyes, mainly noticeable for their icy blue colour, have tiny flecks of cerulean, like thawing patches of a frozen lake melting in the spring. His flaxen hair is messily spiked, strands turning gold as they catch the morning sunlight beaming down through the trees. Cato clears his throat, thankfully pulling me out of my embarrassing contemplations. I've never looked at anyone like that: none of the boys from school, and not even Gale. Glancing down, I shouldn't be surprised to see that he is holding up a sword threateningly to my chest. Attractive or not, he's still a career.

"Bailing on this shitty district?" Cato asks, with a penetrating glare. I shake my head, nearly diffidently. Since when do I turn to impressionable mush around men? Rallying my courage to preserve a slice of my self-respect, I respond.

"I was going hunting," I answer tersely. Cato flashes me a look of repulsion. I'm assuming that District 2 never starved its citizens to the point where they have to live off of squirrels and rabbits. Emboldened by look of superciliousness, I tell him as such.

"It's better than starving. District 12 doesn't have enough food; I'm just keeping my family from going hungry. Act superior all you like, but I'm sure that by the end of the month, you'll be eating game we hunt just like the rest of us. Actually, the Mellarks, your host family always buy my squirrels," I add recalcitrantly. Obviously irritated at my comment, Cato scowls.

"I could turn you in, you know. It'd be the word of an honoured guest against the claims of a whining, dirt poor little girl. I'm sure the Peacekeepers would love to get their hands on you for this."

"Maybe they would in District 2. But here, I sell to the Peacekeepers," I smirk. Cato, still looking conflicted, presses the sword harder into the base of my neck.

"Then what's to stop me from enforcing the laws for them? I could run you through; hide you in the woods to bleed out. I'd never get caught. Give me a reason not to 12, because I'm a monster, and I've got nothing to lose," Cato laughs vaguely dementedly. Looking into his eyes, his pupils enlarged: dark and hollow with bloodlust, I'm sure he means every word of that threat. Gulping as I furiously scramble around my head for a plea, I say last thing that I intended to reveal, but somehow the most truthful.

"Because sometimes I feel like a monster too."

**I would appreciate a review more than like anything so please take a minute to do so! I promise to be super open to comments, suggestions, criticisms (as long as they are constructive), questions, or anything else that my lovely reader have to say :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter- I really appreciate your comments :) As a warning, this is a little out of character (I'm not honestly that thrilled with how quickly Cato and Katniss open up to ****each other- but it was fluffy and cute, so I went with it). Don't worry, I'll try to add more angst if you guys want it- just review to let me know. Thanks so much for reading and please comment :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, its characters, or its plot line. All credit goes to Suzanne Collins. **

**Chapter 2**

_ "Because sometimes I feel like a monster too."_

I know I responded correctly when Cato's reaction slowly registers on his face. With a wary look, he lowers the blade to his side, still poised to strike if the need arises, but slightly more relaxed.

"How so, 12?" he asks, intrigued.

"Maybe that's for me to know and you to figure out. If you can," I reply cheekily.

"You've got a mouth on you, 12. Unlike the rest of this district, I'm starting to think you might actually have a backbone."

"I have a name, you know," I snap, somehow annoyed and flattered at the same time.

"Doesn't everyone? Why should yours matter? Every single person in this God-awful district has a name, how are you any different than the rest of the scum?" Cato presses, apparently seeking a real answer.

"You tell me, you're the one who decided not to kill me." Cato chuckles darkly. "I'm Katniss," I affirm, locking my eyes with his and refusing to back down. A second later, he reaches back and slides the sword back into its sheath with a flourish, extending his hand out for me to shake. Tentatively, I reciprocate, my fingers enveloped in the warmth of Cato's giant, calloused hand.

"I'm Cato, but you already knew that," he introduces arrogantly with a wink. Conceited bastard. I glimpse down and realise his hand is still wrapped around mine. I don't want to move it: for whatever reason, this feels right. Glancing back up, there is something in his expression that tells me Cato senses it too. Reluctantly, I remember that I'm supposed to be hunting. Awkwardly, I begin making an excuse.

"I should probably go, actually. I've got to bring food home to my little sister today," I start apologetically. Cato's face falls then hardens back into the mask he generally wears. He releases my hand as if it had suddenly transformed into something utterly repulsive.

"Right, see you around then," Cato mutters disdainfully. I doubt I've ever met anyone more mercurial. He turns on his heel and begins to jog away, the sheen of sweat visible on his bare, muscular arms as they gleam in the sunlight. I'm clueless as to what possesses me to yell after him.

"Come with me?" I offer. Cato spins around, his face now bearing a look of fascination.

"Why?" he demands.

"You're always on edge. The woods always make me calmer, so maybe they could do you some good," I suggest nonchalantly.

"How exactly is illegally running the fence supposed to be calming?"

"It's not like there's anyone out there. I told you, the Peacekeepers in 12 don't care: I've been going out since I was a little kid, and I've never been caught." Cato shrugs. "Suit yourself, then," I say, beginning to climb back through the barbed wire and into the forest. I hear a huffed sigh behind me, and, to my surprise, Cato follows me.

"This doesn't make us friends," he insists, reading my mind as a smile inches its way across my face at his adamancy. "Hunting is a survival skill, I'll need it in the games."

"I thought you were above poaching."

"I am, but I need to train on something. And since I'm not using impudent little girls, might as well try animals," Cato jests. Well, I think he's joking. It's hard to tell. As we approach the tree where I stash my bow, my heartbeat picks up in anticipation. Only a couple people have ever seen me shoot: my father, Gale, and Prim. People I trust the most. The prospect of showing Cato makes me feel as though I'm sharing an intimate part of myself. A trifling portion of me knows I should be concerned about Cato telling. Yet, somehow, I trust him enough not to break my confidence. A larger part of me is eagerly awaiting an opportunity to impress the career.

Halting in the middle of the path by the hollow log, I withdraw by bow and quiver. Cato gapes at me for a minute, raising his eyebrows.

"You actually know how to use that, 12?" he laughs disbelievingly.

"Wait and see," I scold.

"I mean, I knew you had to have weapons, but I figured you for more of the throwing knives type."

"Shut up, Cato," I reprimand. "You're scaring all the animals away." It's true. His thundering voice and trampling footsteps reverberate through the quiet morning forest.

"Act superior all you want, but I'm not believing anything until you prove it," he retorts. "Meet me back here in an hour. Whoever catches the most wins." I grin, eager for a challenge.

"What's the prize?"

"Bragging rights, of course," Cato explains.

"Come on, I need more motivation than that," I counter.

"What do you want?" he inquires cautiously.

"Tell me about District 2; why you came here, what your family is like." He obviously doesn't really want to open up. But he's confident enough that he's willing to take the risk, because he nods in affirmation. "And what about you?" I question, slightly nervous about what he's going to ask for.

"Archery lessons," he says, shocking me. "If you are good enough to beat me, then maybe I have something to learn."

"I though you were a career. Aren't you supposed to already know how to shoot?"

"They taught me the basics, but I was never very good at it," he admits. "Anyway, as a weapon, it's fairly useless. What are you supposed to do in close range, hit an attacker over the head with it?"

"If you're handy enough with a bow, they'll never get to that point," I point out. "Bows are great long-range, it's much easier than getting close to your targets."

"Spears can do just as much damage," Cato defends.

"But they're not as accurate." He huffs in exasperation, conceding for the time being.

"See you back here in an hour," I chirp, winking, a bit exhilarated at my victory. Cato nods wordlessly and disappears into the foliage to my right, his blade drawn. I smirk at the thought of him trying to sneak close enough to animals in order to use the sword. Combined with my knowledge of the woods, I know that my archery skills will see me triumphant.

Silently, I tread softly in the opposite direction of Cato. I watch for sudden movements by scampering animals with a familiar hunter's eye. Sure enough, it's not long before I notice a rabbit darting across the forest floor, dappled with morning sunlight. My years of experience don't prevent me from halting a moment in sorrow, regretful that I have to kill this innocent creature in order to live myself. I nock an arrow expertly, my grip unfaltering. Steadily, I draw back the string of my bow until the tension builds. When I release, the arrow glides smoothly to its target. One step closer to winning, I collect the limp rabbit and shove it hastily into my game bag. Hearing several slow, sardonic claps, I whirl around, my bow drawn. It's Cato, of course.

"Impressive," is all he says.

"Aren't you supposed to be hunting? Don't waste your time watching me," I retort.

"Measuring up your opponent is never a waste of time," Cato states calculatedly. "How are you supposed to fight if you don't know what you're going against?" This statement barely seems applicable to the situation at hand. Instead, it hints at an unnerving underlying set of morals that have been drilled into Cato's head in preparation for the Games. I feel a rush of resentment for the people in District 2. It's inconceivable to subject naïve children to the brutality of the Hunger Games from such a young age, much less encourage them in training for the Capitol's sick pageant. The practice reminds me of fattening pigs for slaughter.

Before I'm removed from my reverie, Cato has already disappeared into the brush. Cursing him and his distractions under my breath, I plod further amongst the trees, following my way to the place where I know the terrain slopes down and converges with a river. Animals often linger here; ideally, I'll be able to pick off easy prey that has stopped along the stream. Validating my hopes, I hear the distinctive chatter of turkeys as I approach. Concealed in the foliage, I draw my bow and pull back until the string is taught. I take decidedly careful aim free my first arrow. It finds its target in the thin neck of one of the birds inaudibly. I'm able to repeat the process two more times before the birds notice my presence and scatter, leaving their fallen companions dead in the dirt. I disentangle myself from the undergrowth, stumbling a bit before emerging at the riverbank to fetch the turkeys. Ripping the arrows from their skewered flesh, I realise I can only pack one into my game bag; I'll have carry the other two by their flaccid necks. Deciding that it is time to return to the clearing where I met with Cato, I jog back, all the while attempting to ignore pathetically fanciful thoughts of seeing him again. More particularly, seeing his reaction at my catches. This is more than I can generally find in three hours, much less one. There is no conceivable way that Cato could have hunted more than me.

It's apparent that I'm right when I come to the clearing. Cato's face is fixed into a scowl, and a single indistinguishable, bloody heap of fur lies at his feet. Much more concerning is the splattering of red coating Cato's clothes and arms. An unexpected onslaught of worry bombards my subconscious: strange considering how little I know the boy standing next to me. Automatically, as if by some previously hidden instinct, I reach out for his arm, noticing Cato's well-defined bicep flex involuntarily under my gentle touch.

"Are you okay?" I inquire; unclear on whom exactly the blood belongs to. Fortunately I cannot discern any injuries on Cato. He bobs his head to confirm he's unharmed. I burst into laughter.

"That poor creature. I can't even tell what it was," I exclaim between giggles. Cato shoots me a glare before surprising me with a chuckle. It's short-lived, but I doubt I'd ever tire of that sound. Cato's laugh is deep and resonating; I can see it shake through his powerful chest. There's something in the sincerity and youth of this expression that gives me hope for Cato.

"You didn't have to cut it to bits, you know," I tease.

"Shut up," he answers familiarly, as though we've been friends for years. The thought makes me smile.

"So I guess I won," I add casually, trying not to sound boastful. It's hard: I could tell he would brag endlessly if he were in my position. But I refrain. Cato grunts sheepishly. From what I could tell, Careers never took defeat particularly well. Cato supports this observation. I don't miss the gloomy expression cross his profile.

"You don't actually have to tell me if you don't want to," I continue, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, despite my burning curiosity. Cato stuns me with his answer.

"No, I want to," he asserts. My cheeks flush slightly. Cato probably notices the way his comment bordered on affection, as he starts to amend it. "When I make a deal, I always keep to it. I may be a horrible person, but I try to be honourable."

"Okay," I smile, unsure of what else to really say. Instead, I busy myself with starting a fire in the middle of the clearing.

"What are you doing?" he asks. I circle the clearing in search of dry sticks.

"No offence, but we can't really bring back… whatever it is that you caught," I explain, motioning towards the indistinguishable lump. "Frankly, it's a bloody mess. But it's better not to waste it. I'm building a fire so we can cook it: it'll save better that way and it's nearly time for lunch anyway." Cato grunts something inaudible. "What?" I ask.

"It's raccoon," he mumbles. A second later he adds: "I can't believe we're actually eating this." I laugh a little.

"Benefits of living in a starving district."

"Food shortages are not as uncommon in District 2 as the Capitol would have you believe," Cato says softy. "The supplies are distributed unevenly: kids at the Academy get plenty, but lower class families generally just get enough to live on. Even that is just grain." I'm rendered momentarily speechless. District 2 is rumoured to be nearly as lavish as the Capitol itself.

"What about the quarries? Isn't District 2 rich?"

"Comparatively, maybe. My family wasn't," Cato explains, almost wistfully.

"Oh," I respond, unsure of what to say. That was unexpected. "Tell me about them, your family, I mean."

"I had-" Cato swallows and restarts, sounding more composed on his second attempt. "I had an older brother. But four years ago, he died in the games. My dad was angry, and, then my mother, she… um… actually, can we not talk about this?" he stumbles awkwardly. Sensing his discomfort at the delicate subject I seem to have broached, I'm quick to change the topic.

"Okay, sure. So, what do you think about District 12?" I ask.

"Though we already covered this," he answers. A second later, he continues. "It's… different. District 2 had a very strict social system. People who worked in the quarries weren't really supposed to talk to the victors and vice versa. But here, where everyone is dirt poor, people are somehow more equal. It's… refreshing." I never thought of it like that. "But it's still ugly. And inferior. Obviously," he adds quickly. My heart falls slightly. Although I'm not sure what I was expecting: he's still a career.

"Do you like it here?" Cato queries.

"It's a home, I guess. And it's all that I've ever known. But sometimes I hate it; District 12 is just so harsh. There've been times where my family and I have nearly starved. And that makes it even harder when I see it happen to others but can't help," I explain, pausing when I see an unidentifiable expression pass across Cato's face. "But we've had it better than some people. At least I can hunt. Some girls have to sell… you know," I blush. After a second of registration, Cato tenses, his hands balled into tight fists, with the semblance of possessiveness crossing his countenance.

"Not that I've ever done that," I blurt. He appears to calm slightly.

"So where are your parents in all of this?" he asks after a second of uncomfortable silence. My stomach turns at this question. It's not as though I hadn't expected him to ask about this, but I don't want pity. Not from Cato. Not from anyone.

"My father died in a mine collapse when I was eleven and my mother became depressed. I've been taking care of her and my sister, Prim, ever since," I summarise brusquely. Cato falls silent.

"Wow," he replies softly, almost admiringly, after a minute. I can't help but grin slightly. But then Cato suddenly starts talking, and I'm shocked. "After my brother died, my dad started drinking. Both my parents worked in the quarries, so we didn't have much money, and he spent everything we made on more poison," Cato spits with obvious resentment. "I went to the Academy just for the food. I'd smuggle some out for my mom every week and bring it to her," Cato chokes up slightly before continuing. My eyes are glued to his face with concern. "That went on for about two years. But one night, I snuck out to meet her and she was missing. I checked my house and my mother wasn't there either, so I went back to the Academy. The next day, my dad came to the Academy and told me she was dead. Suicide. But I don't buy it," Cato hisses with loathing. "He did it. I know he did."

I can't help but privately agree, although I don't voice my concurrence, not wanting to spur him on. He proceeds with the story, a hollow look in his eyes and a sombre tone in his deep voice. I notice that even the birds in the forest have fallen silent. The only sound in the clearing is Cato.

"That was about a year ago. After that, I poured myself into training. I told myself the Games were the only thing I still had. Some sort of revenge. But then there was the competition to see which tribute got shipped off to 12. There were three of us and the loser was supposed to go. Clove, the girl, outscored me. She's vicious and had been training since she turned five years old. But when I beat Lucius, my other opponent, his family bribed the judges." My mouth falls open in disgust at the corruption.

"That's ridiculous," I protest.

"Tell that to the judges who are now bloody rich," Cato laughs dryly. "Anyway, so I left District 2 in disgrace and here I am. Tadaa!" he finishes facetiously. After a second of contemplation, I have an idea of how to respond.

"That sucks," I say simply, figuring he might be like me. Cato doesn't want pity either. Apparently my judgement is accurate, because his face splits into a grin. Mercurial, but okay, I can handle it.

"I am so glad you are not crying and trying to hug me right now," Cato smiles. "Or else I'd have to punch you."

"Well, my life kind of sucks too, so I get it. Also, I figured you for more the strong and silent type," I wink jokingly; tossing him a stick and piece of meat to roast over the fire I've built. He catches it deftly with lightning fast reflexes. I could easily see him being deadly in the Hunger Games. I wouldn't want him as an opponent. Cato skewers the meat and slides over by me at the fire. I have to resist a bizarre urge to rest against his warm, sturdy chest in the cool midday air. As a distraction, I focus on the sound of the stream in the distance. It babbles cheerily in the background in stark contrast to the grim mood Cato and I had previously set. Somehow, the crackling makes me happier.

Absentmindedly, I realise a tingling heat touching my fingers as I stare across the clearing. Suddenly, the sensation turns to a biting sting. Snapping out of my daze, I yelp, registering that the stick I was holding over the fire is now ablaze. I jump up and stomp on the wood with my thick leather boot to put out the fire. Behind me I hear animated sniggering. Damn it, Cato. Ignoring the now inedible piece of meat that I dropped on the ground, I playfully smack Cato on the arm. His face goes from surprised to annoyed to playful.

"You'll regret that, Girl on Fire," he taunts. I roll my eyes at the nickname, silently praying it won't stick. But somehow I know it will.

"Really? Will I?" I question back.

"I might not kill you, Girl on Fire, but I'm not above tickling you until you wet your pants.

"You wish, 2. Even if I _was _ticklish, you'd have to catch me first," I taunt, abruptly breaking into a sprint. He lunges forward after me as I scan the forest for a good tree to climb until he concedes. For a while, we're like mindless children. Careless and happy.


End file.
